A sickening man

"How long do you plan to keep the bird caged?"

Ishmael sits in his study, buried in files, when his confidant halts his movements with the pointed question.

Manager Cha stiffens where he stands.

The query, spoken by the man lounging on the sofa, startles his fragile heart.

Though he maintains a composed expression, his face betrays the tension—caught between two formidable men.

Ishmael doesn't respond. He keeps his eyes on the file in his hands, dismissing the question with cold silence.

The man with wavy chestnut hair cascading to his shoulders clicks his tongue in annoyance at the disregard shown by his so-called dear friend.

"Rude," he scoffs, folding his strong arms across his chest.

Ishmael spares him a brief glance. "Leave. You can't stay here without a reason."

"Mr. Cha, escort Mr. Ellis to the door," he instructs calmly, eyes still fixed on the blue file.

"You're kicking me out?" Ellis retorts, pretending to be hurt, though he's only met with Ishmael's indifference.

Manager Cha glances hesitantly at the broad-shouldered man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved coral sweatshirt.

Feeling the weight of the gaze, Ellis meets the manager's pleading look with a casual shrug.

Manager Cha sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. Composing himself, he speaks with strained politeness. "Let me escort you out, Mr. Ellis."

Ellis waves him off. "You know why I'm here. I finally get to meet the sister-in-law I've been dying to see. When are you going to introduce us?"

He grins at Ishmael's cold stare with a foolish, teasing smile.

Before anyone can respond, a knock breaks the tension.

"Come in," Ishmael calls out.

The door opens slowly to reveal a maid with her head bowed.

"What is it?" Ishmael asks.

"Madam Neva refused dinner again," she replies softly, avoiding his eyes.

Ishmael closes the file with a shallow breath. "You may leave. Don't disturb her again."

"Yes, sir." She bows deeply, then slips out and closes the door behind her.

"You can retire for today," Ishmael says, rising from his seat.

"Much appreciated, Boss," Manager Cha says with a bow.

"Nothing good comes from a man who keeps something shackled, Ishmael."

The familiar voice stills Ishmael's hand on the doorknob.

"I hope you know when to stop," Jacob adds, his tone grim and unwavering.

"Do not meddle in my affairs. You know better, Jacob," Ishmael replies, glancing back at him from the corner of his eye—his warning tone tight with restrained menace.

As Ishmael walks away, Jacob watches his retreating back and shakes his head at his friend's stubbornness.

---

Without waiting for a gentle knock, Ishmael opens the door to the master bedroom.

The room is dim.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, the moonlight falls in a silver sheet—illuminating Neva's form with an ethereal glow.

She appears ghostlike against the heavy penumbra of the room.

With quiet steps, he approaches her.

She doesn't acknowledge him.

She's curled up on the edge of the oversized sofa. Her form looks small, almost childlike, in the loose white nightdress.

Her head rests sideways on the back of the couch, her eyes vacant as she stares into the night—at the flickering gloom of the sky.

Ishmael sits beside her and reaches for the food left on the glass coffee table.

Removing the lid, he picks up a spoonful of rice and holds it close to her lips.

"Eat before it gets cold," he says, watching as she ignores him entirely—not even blinking.

"Don't test my patience, Neva," he warns, his voice taut, the spoon still suspended in the air.

But she gives no response.

He sighs and sets the spoon down. She's been like this all week—fragile, distant, silent. She hasn't touched a single meal.

Always still. Always staring through the window.

As if she's waiting… for something.

Or someone.

"Do you think you can run away from me again?" Ishmael asks, reaching to cup her chin and tilt her face toward his.

"Hmm?" he prompts softly.

Neva meets his eyes.

His hand lowers and she turns back to the vast, shadowy woods beyond the mansion.

He frowns, that ache returning—the one only she ever stirs.

Grabbing her jaw harshly, he forces her to meet his gaze.

"Eyes. On. Me." His voice is a snarl, his grip tight. His obsidian eyes bore into her empty ones.

He leans in and claims her lips in a kiss—obsessive, desperate.

She doesn't kiss him back.

Frustrated, he yanks her closer, and sinks his teeth into her lower lip until he tastes iron and heat.

Licking it away, he pushes her hair aside, letting his lips graze her neck.

He nibbles over the marks he's left before—his branding.

"Forget the past. Love me, Neva," he whispers, dizzy with desire and desperation, drinking in her warmth.

"You disgust me," Neva whispers. Her voice hollow. Awfully calm.

The words slice through him like a blade.

He stiffens, his pain masked only by force of will.

"It doesn't matter. It's enough that you're here," Ishmael says quietly, swallowing the sting of her rejection.

"Stop starving yourself," he adds, lifting the spoon again.

When she looks away, he grabs her jaw once more, holding her still.

"Your aunt and uncle... they're under my care," he warns darkly. "You know what I'm capable of."

He sees her pupils tremble.

He arches a brow, gesturing toward the food with his eyes.

She glances at him—at those cold, hollow eyes.

The mirror of her soul.

A tear slides down her cheek.

He is sickening to the core.